


She lives in daydreams with me

by BlackSlytherin



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Harry Styles - Freeform, she
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:46:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23251150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackSlytherin/pseuds/BlackSlytherin
Summary: Nine in the morningThe man drops his kids off at schoolAnd he's thinking of youLike all of us do
Kudos: 5





	She lives in daydreams with me

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is not really a fic, just a very short piece of writing inspired by She by Harry Styles. Not sure why I'm posting it, probably just to keep a trace of it. Hope you'll enjoy. (You'd enjoy it better if you read it while simulteanously listening to She)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQ3PeDGswz4

(She - Harry Styles)

____

« Have a lovely day, Maggie-honey, » he says as he kneels down, kissing his daughter goodbye. She giggles a bit and presses a big, wet kiss to his cheek before running to her class. He watches her until she’s out of sight, like he always does, and stays a little longer, just because. He knows his schedule is busy, he knows there is traffic, but he thinks he can spare a few more minutes for his daughter.   
The bell rings and he leaves. He gets back in his car, turning the radio on. Loud music bursts all over him from when Maggie was picking one of the top 40 stations. He only slightly hesitates before switching to the news instead.  
If his hand trembles a little, he doesn’t notice it.  
Chooses not to.

____

He’s sitting in his office, papers sprawled all over his desk. His coffee is getting cold, sitting sadly on a corner of the desk. It’s getting late. Everyone left already, but he’s still there somehow, not ready yet to go home. It’s Friday, Maggie’s mom is getting her from school and she’s spending the week-end with her.   
He’d be alone at home.   
He’d be alone in his head.  
Alone with _her_.  
He’s not ready.

___

The flat is painfully empty.   
He loosens his tie, but that’s not what’s making breathing so hard.  
His hands are shaking again.  
One by one, his clothes fall to the ground. He hates how good it feels, like he’s peeling off the dead skin that’s been itching him all day.  
All his life, really.  
They’re just clothes.  
He stands naked in front of his mirror, but he doesn’t dare to look just yet. He thinks mindlessly of the window still open as he feels the cold breeze on his unclothed skin. Too cold.   
But somehow it feels good, like he’s punishing himself, like he’s doing something right to mask the wrong in his head.  
It’s never enough, though.   
He looks up to his reflection.   
It all feels so wrong.   
Tears start to prickle at the corner of his eyes, and he looks away. Not enough, nothing is enough. He turns his back to the mirror, and his eyes fall on the drawer, that one drawer he tries to forget about but always fails.  
He knows he’s failing today too.   
He knows he’ll lose eventually, so he spares himself the pain and opens it. He holds up the fabric, holds it next to his heart, and when he closes his eyes, he almost sees her again.   
He runs his fingers over the lace, so soft and delicate and pretty, and he’s not sure why he’s still fighting it, why he’s still fighting her.   
There’s still something in the drawer, though.  
He’s never worn the stockings. Never dared to. Even as he’s holding them now, his whole body is shaking in fear, in pain, in hurt. The voices in his head get louder by the second.   
He acts by impulse, takes the fishnet stockings out of the drawer like he’s going to run away with it, and he hears something drop on the floor.  
 _Oh_.  
He kneels down, afraid that the bottle would have spilled all over the floor.   
But it didn’t.   
It’s still intact, with deep black nail polish swimming inside. It’s his favorite.

___

Something is missing, he realises. Something doesn’t feel right yet, and it’s slowly driving him insane. He’s spinning around in his bedroom, and he wants to feel good, wants it to feel right again, but it doesn’t, and he wants to break the walls, break to ceiling, break the floor and disappear under it, but he’s the only one broken in the room, so in a fit of rage he throws his pillow to the giant mirror mocking him, but it does nothing, of course it does nothing, and he’s alone with himself, because he can’t get to her yet.  
He bends down to get the pillow from the floor, but he never gets up. Something is shining from under the bed, he realises, so he lays down on the floor and holds out his hand until he feels something under his fingers. He holds his breath in excitement and removes it from under there, and when he gets it to the light, his breath is caught in his throat.   
Lipstick.  
It’s old, so old. It must have belonged to Maggie’s mom, when she was still living there. It would have stayed there forever, if it didn’t catch a light from outside and reflected it directly in his eyes. It’s almost funny.  
He takes the cap off, and his eyes widen at the sight.   
It’s _pretty_.  
It’s a deep red, one he doesn’t remember seeing. It’s burning in his hands. Calling out to him.  
He holds it up tentatively.   
It’s smooth on his lips, and he smiles a little.

___

He’s sprawled on the bed. The window is still open, but it’s not cold anymore. He runs his fingers along his own skin, lips twitching when he feels the lace. So good. He holds one leg up, looks at it with a hazy smile, admires how the black of the fishnet is contrasting with his too pale skin. Finally, he feels good.  
And when he closes his eyes, she’s there. He falls easily into the dream, watches her as she moves around him, so free, so beautiful he’s afraid to touch. She looks at him with something inviting in her eyes, and when she crawls into his bed, he reaches to follow her, but he can’t.  
It should hurt, but it never does. Because next time she moves, he moves with her.   
In his dream, she’s him.  
He’s her.  
And it’s like there are no lines anymore.


End file.
